was friendly enough, but his eyes slid away, seeking out someone in the crowd.
Carmela had the distinct feeling that Dace Wilcox was definitely not telling the truth. The man has to know Shamus, right? So what’s going on here? Then she shrugged to herself as Dace melted into the crowd.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Dace Wilcox really didn’t know Shamus. No point in browbeating the man. If he said he didn’t know Shamus, she ought to take him at face value.
SOME FORTY MINUTES LATER, CARMELA AND Jekyl Hardy were seated at a table in the Praline Queen, a colorful neighborhood restaurant and bar located in Jekyl’s beloved Bywater District. Because the Praline Queen was notorious for its jumbo stuffed artichokes, spicy gumbos, and sinfully rich praline pie, it drew customers from all over the city. From the French Quarter, Warehouse District, Garden District, even folks who lived across the river in Metairie.
Tonight was no exception. The open kitchen revealed a frenzied knot of white-coated chefs working at break-neck speed to keep pace with orders. Flames danced above the grill as great slabs of barbecue ribs were slathered with mind-bending sauces and fillets of catfish and skewers of gulf shrimp were plopped on the grill to sizzle and hiss.
Carmela and Jekyl shared a stuffed artichoke, dipping each tender morsel in the zesty lemon and garlic remoulade that accompanied it. Now Carmela was enjoying a bowl of oyster stew while Jekyl dug into a heaping mound of boiled crawfish.
“I’m about ready to go insane,” declared Jekyl. “The floats for the Nepthys krewe still aren’t finished for Saturday night, and I’m supposed to conduct a connoisseurship class that morning. How everything got mishmashed on top of one another I’ll never know.”
Carmela smiled. Jekyl was notorious for taking on ten projects at once, then flipping out from the stress of it all. Then again, there seemed to be a lot of stressed-out folks these days. Didn’t everybody have a scrip for Prozac? Wasn’t Valium making a big comeback?
“What are you going to cover in your connoisseurship class?” Carmela asked him.
“Oh . . . restorations, fakes and frauds, periods and styles,” answered Jekyl. “Same old same old, except for the fact that the ladies still lap it up.”
Carmela nodded. Jekyl Hardy had been blessed with an unerring eye for quality and a gift for imparting his knowledge in a nonthreatening, easy-to-digest sound-bite manner. He was expert in discussing oil paintings, old silver, porcelain, and even furniture.
“I take it this is your usual audience?” asked Carmela. Jekyl was wildly popular among the ladies who resided in the immense homes in New Orleans’s famed Garden District. Where she had lived not that many months ago.
“The usual,” agreed Jekyl. “Although most of them have major parties cooking over the next few days, so I don’t know how they’re going to find time, either. But I talked with Ruby Dumaine this afternoon,” he said, “and she assured me there’s still going to be at least a half-dozen ladies in attendance.”
Carmela suddenly perked up her ears. Ruby Dumaine was the wife of Jack Dumaine, the remaining senior partner in Clayton Crown Securities, now that Jimmy Earl Clayton was dead.
“Ruby mentioned that her husband, Jack, is going to deliver the eulogy tomorrow morning at Jimmy Earl’s funeral,” said Jekyl. He gave a practiced twist of his wrist and snapped the head off another crawfish. “Do you , by any chance, have plans to don a black shawl and be in attendance at Jimmy Earl’s funeral?” he asked.
Carmela tossed a handful of oyster crackers into her stew. “You know,” she mused, “I hadn’t really thought about it.” Truth be known, she had pondered the idea, she just didn’t care to admit her rather morbid curiosity to Jekyl.
“For the time being, your life seems to be inexplicably woven into this Jimmy Earl thing,” said Jekyl. “So I figured
Carmela had the distinct feeling that Dace Wilcox was definitely not telling the truth. The man has to know Shamus, right? So what’s going on here? Then she shrugged to herself as Dace melted into the crowd.
Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Dace Wilcox really didn’t know Shamus. No point in browbeating the man. If he said he didn’t know Shamus, she ought to take him at face value.
SOME FORTY MINUTES LATER, CARMELA AND Jekyl Hardy were seated at a table in the Praline Queen, a colorful neighborhood restaurant and bar located in Jekyl’s beloved Bywater District. Because the Praline Queen was notorious for its jumbo stuffed artichokes, spicy gumbos, and sinfully rich praline pie, it drew customers from all over the city. From the French Quarter, Warehouse District, Garden District, even folks who lived across the river in Metairie.
Tonight was no exception. The open kitchen revealed a frenzied knot of white-coated chefs working at break-neck speed to keep pace with orders. Flames danced above the grill as great slabs of barbecue ribs were slathered with mind-bending sauces and fillets of catfish and skewers of gulf shrimp were plopped on the grill to sizzle and hiss.
Carmela and Jekyl shared a stuffed artichoke, dipping each tender morsel in the zesty lemon and garlic remoulade that accompanied it. Now Carmela was enjoying a bowl of oyster stew while Jekyl dug into a heaping mound of boiled crawfish.
“I’m about ready to go insane,” declared Jekyl. “The floats for the Nepthys krewe still aren’t finished for Saturday night, and I’m supposed to conduct a connoisseurship class that morning. How everything got mishmashed on top of one another I’ll never know.”
Carmela smiled. Jekyl was notorious for taking on ten projects at once, then flipping out from the stress of it all. Then again, there seemed to be a lot of stressed-out folks these days. Didn’t everybody have a scrip for Prozac? Wasn’t Valium making a big comeback?
“What are you going to cover in your connoisseurship class?” Carmela asked him.
“Oh . . . restorations, fakes and frauds, periods and styles,” answered Jekyl. “Same old same old, except for the fact that the ladies still lap it up.”
Carmela nodded. Jekyl Hardy had been blessed with an unerring eye for quality and a gift for imparting his knowledge in a nonthreatening, easy-to-digest sound-bite manner. He was expert in discussing oil paintings, old silver, porcelain, and even furniture.
“I take it this is your usual audience?” asked Carmela. Jekyl was wildly popular among the ladies who resided in the immense homes in New Orleans’s famed Garden District. Where she had lived not that many months ago.
“The usual,” agreed Jekyl. “Although most of them have major parties cooking over the next few days, so I don’t know how they’re going to find time, either. But I talked with Ruby Dumaine this afternoon,” he said, “and she assured me there’s still going to be at least a half-dozen ladies in attendance.”
Carmela suddenly perked up her ears. Ruby Dumaine was the wife of Jack Dumaine, the remaining senior partner in Clayton Crown Securities, now that Jimmy Earl Clayton was dead.
“Ruby mentioned that her husband, Jack, is going to deliver the eulogy tomorrow morning at Jimmy Earl’s funeral,” said Jekyl. He gave a practiced twist of his wrist and snapped the head off another crawfish. “Do you , by any chance, have plans to don a black shawl and be in attendance at Jimmy Earl’s funeral?” he asked.
Carmela tossed a handful of oyster crackers into her stew. “You know,” she mused, “I hadn’t really thought about it.” Truth be known, she had pondered the idea, she just didn’t care to admit her rather morbid curiosity to Jekyl.
“For the time being, your life seems to be inexplicably woven into this Jimmy Earl thing,” said Jekyl. “So I figured
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